


The Hunting of Gregory Lestrade

by HolmesianDeduction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Days Universe, Flirting, M/M, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had only planned to go out hunting; taking a lover was certainly not on his agenda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hunting of Gregory Lestrade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [findingsherlock (FindingSherlock)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FindingSherlock/gifts).



            Mycroft was on the hunt.  He had slipped away, as he was wont to do, and had taken the night for himself.  The deceptively inexpensive and currently jacketless suit that he wore in place of his usual expensively tailored one made for an appearance that would have unsettled anyone who knew him.  _However_ , he added mentally, carefully rolling his shirt cuffs over his forearms, the small of his back pressed uncomfortably against the edge of the bar, _they'll never know, will they?_

            The hunt, as he had come to affectionately call it, was something that he had begun to do while at university, at least partially out of boredom.  He would dress up, catch a cab to a bar that he had scoped out weeks in advance, and don the mask of a bored barfly.  From there it was simply a matter of choosing a target and playing the game.  Rather than make the first move, the game required that he slip inside his target’s brain and figure out what would induce them to make a move on him.  Usually, this was no difficult task, and he very rarely found himself going home alone, except for when he decided that the target wasn’t worth his time once the game was won.

            It had been some time since Mycroft had played the game, but already he could feel his body slipping into the old routine, his hip cocked slightly to the left as he leaned against the bar, his elbows resting lightly on either side of his waist.

            Then it happened.  A familiar voice from across the bar jerked his head around, his eyes immediately locking onto the figure, his mind calling up the relevant facts with more than its normal acceleration after a single sweep.

            _Gregory Lestrade._

__

_1\. Single father._

_2\. Divorced._

_3\. Lonely, but still nostalgic for the wife._

_4\. Doesn’t really come to the bar to pick up women, and hasn’t been hit on by a man since university._

            Shaking his head, he prepared to discard the information along with the notion of targeting this man – this man who was far too close to his brother – but then stopped mid-way as their eyes met in a brief, semi-panicky moment from across the room.  Exhaling, Mycroft leaned back, forcing his body back into its previous state, and ordered a scotch.  If Gregory Lestrade was alarmed or confused, he was doing a very good job of hiding it, at least until one of the men he had begun talking to glanced Mycroft’s way before quickly turning back to the conversation and saying something in response.

            _He doesn’t know then.  Or isn’t sure of himself._

            It was less than a half hour later when the bartender brought Mycroft a drink that he didn’t order.  In response to a questioning eyebrow, the bartender shrugged.  “Gentleman across the way sent it.”

            Not looking up yet, Mycroft lifted the drink to his nose carefully and allowed the aroma to sift through the stale air of the room into his nostrils.

            _1\. Aromatic bitters, bit more than necessary._

_2\. Gin – Bombay Sapphire – best gin in the bar, but not top shelf._

_3\. Potential date then, not business associate._

_4\. Not quite gin and tonic.  Clever.  Has an idea of who I might be and what it is I might do._

_5\. Comfortable with himself._

_6\. Price shows interest, simplicity discretion._

_7\. He understands how to send drinks properly._

Filing it all away for further use, he sipped the drink slowly, savouring it before motioning the bartender back over to him.

            A few moments later, Lestrade had appeared at the barstool next to him.  “How’d you know?”  Mycroft arched an eyebrow and the other man took a nervous swallow of his drink before holding it up.  “German beer.  I tried it recently while on a trip.  How did you know?”

            “I saw your wallet when you paid for your drink.”  When the other man complied by placing it in Mycroft's outstretched hand, he carefully let his fingertips run over the seams of the slightly scuffed leather billfold.  “German made,” he brought it up to his nose, “still smells new, so acquired recently,” flipped it open to reveal a small photograph of three small figures in front of a monument, “on a trip to Germany with your daughters – probably during the Chinese smuggling case two months ago.”

            A brief look of surprise crossed his face as Mycroft passed his wallet back to him, followed by a half-smile.  “Greg Lestrade.”

            Allowing a thin smile to crack across his lips, Mycroft extended a hand.  “Mycroft.  We’ve met.”

            A small, puzzled look crossed the detective inspector’s face, and he took the other’s hand sheepishly.  “We have?”  When Mycroft nodded, he laughed a little and turned his wallet over in his hand.  “I know a guy who does the same thing, you know.”

            “Oh?”  Mycroft raised a bemused eyebrow.  “Just like that?”

            “Well,” the other man shrugged, “bit less tact.”

            “One of your employees?”  Watching his companion’s expression carefully, he had to bite back laughter at the horrified look on the other man’s face.

            “Oh God no!”  Then, smiling sheepishly, he added, “He’s a consulting detective.  Someone turned us onto him a few years ago.  I’ve been letting him in on cases ever since.”

            “Oh?  What’s he like?”  Mycroft tilted his head, genuinely curious now.

            “Brilliant really, but a bit of a wanker, if you know what I mean.”  He took another sip of his beer, “but really, _really_ clever.  He became more bearable once we got him off the drugs.”

            _You might want to continue to keep an eye on that, Inspector_.  The phrase crossed Mycroft’s mind idly as he watched the other man talk, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass.  Almost absently, Mycroft leaned in, slipping a hand onto the bar behind them and setting the glass down, bringing his lips close to the other’s ear.  “Sounds rather like it, but worth it, no?”

            “Oh very much.  He’s a huge help,” Greg laughed sheepishly, allowing his free hand to touch his companion’s upper arm lightly as he shifted his feet. “More than I’d like to admit, honestly.”

            Allowing a brief smile to paint his features, Mycroft smoothly changed the topic from his brother’s temperament, his carefully manicured nails trailing the back the inspector’s coat as he shifted his weight onto the foot closest to the other man.  “Do you smoke, Gregory?”

            The sudden brush of Mycroft’s thigh against his left an empty space in the conversation which Greg rapidly attempted to fill with words.  “Been trying to quit.  You?”

            “Varies from day to day.”  Mycroft’s voice remained only loud enough to hear, forcing Greg to lean in further, then adding almost plaintively, “I’m positively _dying_ for a cigarette.”

            “Well,” Greg inclined his head thoughtfully, “We _could_ leave, if you’re agreeable.  Your place?”  He punctuated the inquiry with his fingers, which slid down Mycroft’s forearm easily in a manner that would have seemed accidental at least or inconsequential at most to the casual observer.

            Mycroft Holmes responded with a tight smile that set off unspecified alarms in Gregory Lestrade’s brain.

 

            The alarms in Greg’s head slowly died down as he slipped into the back of the taxi while the other man murmured instructions to the driver before ducking through the car door to sit next to him, his blazer folded neatly in his lap.  As they began moving, the bumps in the road put him in almost constant contact with Mycroft’s thigh and shoulder, and sent lips colliding with skin as half-whispered conversation was interrupted by turns and traffic lights.  By the time the cab finally pulled up to what Greg quickly realised was a _very_ expensive flat, the alarms were deafened by the steady rush of blood in his ears.

            Slipping out of his side of the cab, Greg watched as Mycroft murmured something to the driver before paying him and moving ahead to lead the other to the door, pausing only to retrieve a cigarette.  “You don’t happen to have a light, do you Gregory?”

            Greg fumbled around in his pockets for a moment before producing a cheap plastic lighter and lighting the taller man’s cigarette, his attention transfixed by his companion’s expression as he took a long first drag on the long, slender cylinder before exhaling slowly, his eyes half-closed.  Watching, Greg waited until, cigarette balanced carefully between fingers, Mycroft glanced at him, head tilted slightly, one corner of his mouth twitched upwards.  “How much do you actually even want that cigarette?”

            Greg was conscious, as he said this, of the lack of distance between them, but was made even more so as the other man replied practically into his mouth, “Not at all actually.”

            Dimly, he noticed the cigarette fall to the brickwork, only to be stamped out as Mycroft took a step forward, shifting into the kiss with the practised ease that Greg had anticipated when considering how best to go about things.

            As they pulled apart, Mycroft appraised the other man carefully.  His kissing had been as expected – skilled, but as discreet and careful, bordering on cautious as the man himself, and Mycroft allowed a certain satisfied smirk to cross his features, one which, as it appeared, sent Greg’s eyes wide with a sudden recognition.

            _1\. Recognises the expression as being seen on my brother._

_2\. Suddenly conscious of a family resemblance he didn’t see, or didn’t want to see._

Greg’s breath escaped his lungs in a single low gasp, _“Fuck._ ”

            _3\. Pupils still dilated, more than before possibly._

_4\. Upon cursory scan, still very much interested._

“Mycroft _Holmes_.  _Christ_.  You’re Sherlock’s _brother_?”

            “Quite so.”

            _5\. He wants Sherlock as well as me.  Interesting._

The unsettling smirk stayed in place.  “Is that a problem?”

            There was a pause, and for a moment Mycroft considered that he might bolt, but then something clicked into place behind the other man’s eyes and he shook his head.  Allowing the smile to spread into something a little more dangerous, and more recognisable still, Mycroft turned his back to the door, his fingers entering the key code out of practise and cocked his head expectantly.

            The second kiss very nearly threw him off-balance, it was harder and far less discreet, but then they were inside and discretion had become a matter of no importance.  Clearly no longer in danger of bolting, Greg used the momentum of entering the flat to push the taller man against a wall, kissing him a third time and drawing a soft noise of satisfaction from Mycroft’s throat that might have, in another situation, gone unvoiced.

            Between gasps, Mycroft carefully urged the other man on, his fingers brushing through fabric and skilfully disarming shirt buttons and tie knots alike.  It was somewhere between the moment that a still mostly-clothed Mycroft peeled him out of his trousers and the impact of his back against the mattress that Greg realised that he had lost control of the situation, or never had it to begin with – no longer urging him on with his own reactions, Mycroft pressed Greg against the mattress, fingers pressing into tensed muscles.

            “Mycroft.”  Greg gasped the name as smooth bureaucrat’s fingers ran over old scars and traced back to graze over the backs of his thighs.

            As if in response, Mycroft kissed him hard, flushed bruising blossoming on the other’s lips before he even pulled away, the faintest traces of blood on his lips.

            Settling off his elbows, Greg allowed himself to ease onto his back, his eyes closing in a shaky exhalation that reversed itself jerkily back into his lungs as Mycroft’s lips whispered along the underside of his cock and curled themselves over the tip in a single coordinated motion.  His hips arching reflexively, breath escaping his lips in a soft, shuddery moan, Gregory Lestrade’s eyes fluttered open to gaze upwards at the ceiling above the bed…and his own reflection, lips already sore and reddened from earlier, fingers clenched, white-knuckled in the sheets, and the pale, scarred span of Mycroft Holmes’ back moving fluidly between his legs.

            _Jesus Christ, a mirror._   Exhaling shakily, Greg let his eyes flutter closed again.

 

            The next morning, Mycroft awoke to find the other side of the bed empty.  _To be expected_.  _He probably found his own way home_.  Unconcerned, and more importantly, in pain, he took his time getting out of bed and showering before donning his silk dressing gown – the wine red one brought over from a trip to Japan – and collecting his mobile for the morning’s proceedings.

            He was still halfway across the flat from the kitchen when he smelled the overwhelming aroma of freshly brewed coffee and something else.  He paused, his lips pursed.

            _1\. Coffee.  My own.  But inexpertly brewed.  It’s been on too long, but not long enough to cause any harm._

_2\. Eggs.  Scrambled.  Small quantity of milk added._

_3\. Someone used to brewing lower quality coffee and scrambling eggs for children._

_Conclusion: Gregory Lestrade._

Attempting to appear unsurprised, he slipped into the kitchen and quickly scanned the room.  Nearly everything was in place.  His briefcase with laptop safely inside lay on the table – untouched.  The only thing out of place was the spectacle of Gregory Lestrade standing at the stove in his clothes from the night before with a skillet full of eggs.

            Looking up from the stove, he flashed the other man a brief smile.  “Morning.  Coffee should be ready.  Eggs are almost done.”

            “Good morning, Gregory.”  Trying hard to quell any visible display of surprise, Mycroft nodded woodenly and poured the coffee into his favourite mug before seating himself at the table and adding the prerequisite amount of cream and sugar to the beverage.  A moment later, Greg seated himself opposite him, and sliding a plate of eggs across the table, watched in silence as the other man went about his morning business, until, almost idly, Mycroft commented, “You know he’ll be able to read this all over you.”

            There was a pause, and then Greg nodded, “Undoubtedly.”  He paused, then added, “but then again, he reads everything else anyway.”

            Tilting his head, Mycroft watched the other man with an unexpected level of interest.  This man knew his brother.  Knew the difficulties that could arise from this incident.  Yet neither that danger, nor Mycroft’s demeanour seemed to put him off.

            _I may have a hard time getting rid of this one._


End file.
